


petrichor

by ikmkr



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Gen, tw: poor mental health, tw: pyromanial tendencies, tw: self-harm behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 12:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikmkr/pseuds/ikmkr
Summary: noun., a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.





	petrichor

**Author's Note:**

> touchy feely shit again

you smelled like smoke wherever you went. the tips of millions of strands of hair were charred somedays, curled at the ends, the blackness of fire blending into the darkness of the fibres of dead that made up hair, cells long gone, the same keratin that made up your nails— which had soot underneath them, grown long from negligence, some torn. you sat and you obsessed over the dirt in the night, too restless to sleep but too bored to do anything or think anything else so you obsessed and you scratched and you wiggled your toes in your socks until you fell over on your mattress out cold. it never changed the fact that after a good fire the ashes seemed to dust you and make you appear like an abandoned bookshelf antique, your china painted face unmoving, dust covering you like a fine silk blanket. a nuisance that came off with a dust of your palm over your sleeve.

you stood out even among them. your eyes were wide and unblinking and piercing into the night. they slept easier than you knowing you were still awake. they never got a full night of sleep but at least they slept better than you— the moment you closed your eyes to sleep the silent movie rewound itself and played back at 300 frames a second, a violent, flashing horror picture, and your eyes shot back open like the flash of a camera. and those ash-filled nails would squeeze at your forearms and the biceps underneath, dangerously close to digging into skin, and those eyes would dart and twitch and wander until you would return to wherever you were sleeping tonight, on a spare mattress, pile of crates, in a closet or somewhere far removed from the rest of them no matter how much you loved them all.

you loved them in your own kind of way. a begrudging nod. a half-smile. a nervous dart of the eyes downwards. the way you kept to yourself, because they saw you as perfect and cold and made of stone and they would laugh if you said you loved them, each and every one of them, in all of their different lilts. you loved them all but sometimes it seemed to you like you were not doing it correctly. 

waking them up with arson definitely is not the correct way to love your companions, you suppose, but the instinctual mad part of you yearns to watch it all turn to dust. you let it do what it needed.

it depended on the building. some were fine. you could stay there and not feel that tug. grocery stores. monuments. restaurants. restaurants were your favorite. you could distract yourself with preparing a decent meal with whatever you had that day, and if you were lucky, all of the appliances would still work and it would be as good as the first meal you ever cooked, back when there were still stoves to use.

(sometimes the chef would help you, too, and he would set the radio to some old southern station, warbling out tunes over a broken speaker, singing about mama’s sons and father’s daughters falling in love on a hill overlooking the cornfields that were long dead today. it was a wistful call to a past you never had, but desperately wanted, a past that was heaven in comparison to what you had seen.

you would pull your head away by placing one hand on the cool marble and the other straight onto the hot burner and the pain would drag you right back to where you were. the chef would look away when you did that, aware that to protest would be to commit the fool’s atrocity: hypocrisy.

restaurants were friendly places.)

other buildings were not so fine. dorm rooms. hotels. government bases. hospitals. manors. they had beds, but the moment you would step in, the walls would be _too familiar_ a color and the setting was _too much like back then_, and then late in the night you would crawl to the base of the scaffolding and you’d have a lighter in your hand and the next thing you knew, it was ablaze. there would be shouts from inside but you knew they were used to this, used to crawling out on hands and knees through smoke, giving you that look again. the piteous look. that one you hated, because they had long since learned why you do that. 

there was always zero casualties from your fires. the buildings were cleared of anyone who would be at risk beforehand anyways. you did not set fires to kill living things.

you set fires to kill memories.

tonight it was a warehouse. you went to use the lavatory and found the tiling to be too constricting, and you’d rushed outside in a mad dash, hand already in your coat pocket, fingers shakily fumbling around your favorite, gently clicking it and watching the resulting flame dance, dangerously close to your skin. your footsteps were hasty and clacky against the stone floor, far too loud and far too echoing, reminding you of the nature of this building, its materials and usage. you threw your elbow into the door, opening outwards as per federal regulation, and forced it open, barreling into the outside world.

the air smelled of petrichor. it was going to rain soon. you could feel it in the way the winds slightly tugged at your hair and suit, slightly breezed against your skin in a way that you could just barely feel the oncoming moisture, your brain buzzing with knowledge about cloud patterns and evaporation cycles and condensation that was thoroughly unnecessary for everything you have ever done up until now, but still somehow useful here. the flame danced, too, licking against your fingers almost desperately, as if begging you to set it free, quickly, before the wind and rain snuffed out its light. it yearned to swallow the dead grass and siding in its maw. and who where you to deny it.

and then the door opened. one of them came out. he looked guilty, scurrying, hiding something. probably here to continue his bad habits, or maybe relieve himself away from the rest, as to not wake them up with his mess. he certainly did not seem to expect you out here, and he flinched, curling in on himself as to hide whatever shameful thing he had planned.

or maybe he wanted to see the stars. no need to assume.

he straightened back up, a bit reluctantly, and since you could see no discrepancies in his appearance, you paid him no mind. you knelt near the siding of the foundations, the material a blissful wood (easy kindling), the flame flickering closer, excited, cloying. he shuffled behind you, tall, gangly, morose looking, the clinking of metal accompanying his footsteps.

so you’re doing this again, he said, almost conversationally, but you could hear the accusation in his tone.

so i am, you replied, your voice a quiet whisper, an invitation, a _what will you do to stop me_. you know he’ll do nothing, as he was forbidden to, they all were— not by you, but still forbidden nonetheless.

he looked at you; you looked at him and saw not a trace of that pity everyone else has. he doesn’t pity you like the rest does, he reveres you, and even you can feel his liquid desire melting all around you like streams of liquid dark chocolate pouring off the roof like a hansel and gretel gingerbread house. but tonight that reverence was replaced with something you did not expect: disappointment.

it startled you. this wasn’t something you were used to. you prided yourself in your ability to predict all of them, especially him, the one you took the longest to figure out. you developed that skill; it was your art, your saving hallmark, the one skill you would ever want or need to defend yourself after everything else was just _handed_ to you, like it always has been. but the one moment you felt you needed it it failed you, and it delighted you, in a masochistic way. you really were like him, no matter how different you appeared to be.

you looked at him. he looked at you, and meeting your eyes, his gaze broke, eyes darting away into the dirt beneath his feet. he looked reluctant then. reluctant to do anything against you.

the flame caught on the siding, and your mouth twitched up in satisfaction as the damages grew and the first smoke alarm went off, almost like a warning call. you could hear them stirring within, sleepy, confused. you took him within your wrist and dragged him away from the building, watching from a distance as the fire grew and all 13 remaining came out of the building, one by one; first the gymnast and her coach, always first awake, stepping outside to yell in fright at the now towering section of flame, and running back in, clearly to get people out, then the princess, the warlock and the mechanic running out, those devillish hamsters screeching and squealing into the night, adding to the horrific noise that was the roaring of the behemoth fire, and the smoke detectors, screaming, their plastic casing melting in the blaze. the punk, the photographer and the dancer came then, gymnast and coach with them, dragging along a wailing nurse in between them, the woman attempting to throw herself into the heat, wanting so desperately to rid herself of existence. the warlock was watching the fire like that, too, but the mechanic and the princess had a subtle but tight grip on his forearms. then the impostor came out, his goggles blackened with soot, that piteous look on his face, heading for you, and you took your companion’s arm and dragged him into the bush, knowing that if you breathe quietly he won’t notice you. 

then next came the mafioso and the swordswoman, battle-ready and afraid, eyes sharp and tense, weapons drawn. the impostor, upon sight of them, rushed to them, his great hands waving as he explained, and the cold fury died out of their eyes, arms dropping to their sides one by one, as the chef finally left the building, foodstuffs clutched in his hands, eyes wide in disbelief, terror.

you watched as a chunk of siding broke off and fell to the ground, the scent of smoke obscuring the petrichor, obscuring everything, hot and heady as you breathed in gently through your nose. he sat behind you in the brush, shuddering, watching everything fall apart.

the impostor found you again, the brush shaking as his great hand brushed it away from where you both were crouching. the impostor looked at him with an expression you could not read, and he cowered, not looking at either of you. you stared at him, gaze level, gaze icy, gaze guarded to hide the trembling of your hands, one hidden in your pocket with the lighter. you were ready to walk away. but he said nothing, putting a hand on your shoulder, holding out his other, which you brought to your face and wordlessly leaned into, allowing him to feel your heartbeat. he nodded at it.

i thought as much, the impostor said kindly.

you shook your head. don’t pity me, you said. it’s a waste.

i’m not pitying you, he said. i’m just being there for you.

you could have responded in a sharp way but you stayed your tongue. unnecessary comment, despite your doubts on the sentimentality of any of them. you knew what they went through because of your passivity. oh, you knew. you watched. they saw you watching. that’s all you ever did.

the impostor left you then, going over to the rest of the crowd. you grabbed your companion again and followed him. the three of you came over to them. the fire had died now, the building nothing but a charred exoskeleton of what it once was, tiny fires still broiling in the rubble. the scent of smoke was overpowering.

and then, the skies opened up, finally. the fire outpaced the rain, but the rain put out the stuff still glowing, hissing as the water made contact, the smoky, ashy smell turning to steam. the petrichor slipped back into the scent palate; that moist, earthy scent foreign and also familiar, like a child forced outside to play and watching it rain, barefoot, toes on the driveway dancing on the wet spots, careful not to slip. your hair caught the rain and it ran wet down your face and over your suit and down past your shoes, rivulets running down your face.

it was over again. you would be fine for now. you would take them to a new building to stay, and the cycle of atrocities would continue. for now it was over.

for now, even this could be killed.


End file.
